Incoming Text:
by 8armstoholdyou
Summary: Set after Reichenbach. John won't stop texting Sherlock.


Incoming Text: I finally threw away the severed head. –JW

Incoming Text: Molly spoke of you in the past tense for the first time. –JW

Incoming Text: Mycroft sent cake. I didn't eat any. Don't suppose you would either. –JW

Incoming Text: Your mother invited me for tea. Should I decline? –JW

Incoming Text: I didn't go. –JW

Sherlock knew he had the time for these texts he was getting. He wasn't doing anything other than hiding out, which required surprisingly little energy. He was playing the waiting game. Moriarty was dead, so it was only a matter of time before his whole web collapsed. But Sherlock never answered the phone.

As far as he and Mycroft knew, John was still being watched. His grieving process had to be as convincing as possible. What could be more convincing than the real thing? Of course Sherlock felt bad about putting his best (and only) friend through such an ordeal, but it was necessary and the emotional aspect of the whole plan was not. _Deleted._

Incoming Text: Went to work today. –JW

Sherlock could do nothing but sigh at the phone. Of course, he should have been expecting a text from John at the worst possible time. He had no money and Mycroft wasn't much of a help in a crisis, so Sherlock was in the middle of stealing some food when his phone beeped. In fact, it went off again during the getaway. Sherlock checked it on the run.

Incoming Text: Miss you. –JW

If he were normal, Sherlock would've gotten misty. But he wasn't normal; normal is bad for the brain. When he made it back to his "flat," which was really an abandoned paper factory, Sherlock made a decision. Six more months, and then he'd come home. He just needed to figure out a way-

Incoming Text: Mycroft sent cake again. Fat bastard. –JW

John was always interrupting his thoughts. Though it was annoying, Sherlock was learning to deal with it, like he was learning to deal with other things. "Where was I?" he asked out loud. Oh, right. Six months. Just have to survive until then.

As far as 'other things' go, Sherlock's main problem was his habit of talking out loud. He upset many people whom normal people would rather not know of and gave away his location many times. Sometimes, when he was in public, he'd hold his phone to his ear like he was talking to someone. Usually he'd imagine talking to John, but occasionally he would 'call' Mycroft, Molly, Irene, or Lestrade. Oddly enough, he'd never once 'called' Mrs. Hudson.

Incoming Text: I miss you. –JW

Incoming Text: We never did go on that date. –JW

Incoming Text: Had a row with a machine again. Left the store without paying. –JW

Incoming Text: Found out Mycroft's been paying my bills. –JW

Incoming Text: Made risotto for two, realized you weren't here. –JW

Incoming Text: Risotto's still on the table if you want it. –JW

Incoming Text: Mrs. Hudson got me a cat. Reminds me of you. –JW

The next few months passed in this fashion. Sherlock eventually enjoyed getting texts, though they often caused a bit of trouble for him. He did scoff at the one about the cat, though. John was obviously losing it. Sherlock thanked Mycroft for paying the bills and sending food over, though he argued that sending 'real food' would be a better use of his money. The poor doctor couldn't live on desserts.

When the day he would be coming home rolled around, Sherlock didn't have any ideas as to how to contact John. He could just walk in, he reasoned. After all, Mycroft was paying the bills (like he did when Sherlock lived there). He could make a grand entrance, really knock John's sweater off. He could also call John, or send him a letter, or purposefully bump into him in the street. There was such a wide range of things he could do.

Incoming Text: Come home. –JW

That's it! He would text John. Now the question was what to send?

He argued with himself for hours before finally deciding on the following message.

Incoming Text: Let's have dinner. –SH

Incoming Text: Who is this? –JW

Incoming Text: I'm asking you out on a date. Aren't you interested? –SH

Incoming Text: This isn't funny. –JW

There would be no more texting between the two men. When they had news to tell, they would call or wait until dinner to talk about it. Sherlock would text anyone else in the world, but never John. Sherlock and John needed to hear each other's voices from then on. It never grew old, talking with each other. Even if it was about nothing.

"John. I asked you to dinner. Please don't stand me up like you did my mother."

John turned around, mouth hanging open. Tears sprang to his eyes. There he was, his spindly, deep-voiced, ridiculously annoying best friend. John leaped forward and hugged Sherlock, like a child would hug a father who had been away for a long time. He didn't let go, even when Sherlock tried to squirm out of the embrace. John didn't care how comfortable Sherlock felt; he was real, healthy, alive. "You didn't answer my question," Sherlock grinned.

John took a step back and scanned Sherlock's face. "God, yes."


End file.
